


to find a home

by pheonixgt



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arya is her own person, Dorne, F/M, Hate to Love, POV Arya Stark, R Plus L Equals J, arya is a badass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-27 07:43:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13876329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pheonixgt/pseuds/pheonixgt
Summary: Marrying a lord, maybe she could have grown to accept it, having had it pushed on her since she was a child (no matter how much she argued against it). But a prince… it was probably the worst fate she could have ever of been granted.





	1. the kings letter

The news comes along with the first flurries of winter. 

Arya isn’t prepared. She is called to her father’s solar as the sun is beginning to set, and the hair at her temples is damp with sweat from chasing Rickon around the courtyard. Her dress is encrusted with dirt, and her shoes are muddy. She is only half apologetic as she dirties the wooden floors, but even that is forgotten when she sees the look on her father’s face.

“What’s the matter?” She asks, glancing at her mother. She is pale, and her lips are pressed thin. Her hands are clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles glowing white.

“The king has written us.” Lord Eddard Stark says right away. He is holding a spread open scroll in front of him, palm resting heavy over the words. 

For a moment she pauses, confused. Shouldn’t he be speaking to Robb -

“The king thinks it important to put aside our differences. Robert’s Rebellion is in the past, he says. So, we should treat it as such.” He stares hard into her eyes, and there is a sadness she has never seen before. It’s as if he is about to tell her someone has died. She braces herself. “And I agree. A strained relationship with your king is a dangerous one…There is a matter he wishes.”

She stares expectantly. After all, with the way he is looking at her, she had expected it. 

“Uniting two houses is a sure way for peace – “He began, more hesitant than she’s ever seen him be.

Arya isn’t dumb. She has been the one called to this room, instead of his heir, and Sansa has already been married off to Loras Tyrell. The king has three children, and the two trueborn have been betrothed since they were five years old.

“No.” She says immediately. She steps forward, presses her hands against his desk. “Father, I can’t do that. Remember what you said? You and mother agreed that I didn’t have to until my seventeenth nameday…”

“You will.” He tells her, and Catelyn Stark looks away. Out of the window, out at the darkening sky. “No one says no to a – “

“I don’t care!” She shouted, flying back a few steps. She has never been the emotional one of their family. Her head has never been stuck in the clouds, and songs have never choked her up like they had with her sister and her friends, but she feels tears in her eyes. He was supposed to be the one who understood. “I don’t care what the stupid king wants – this is a trick! Just like what happened to – “

“Arya.” His voice isn’t quiet, but it isn’t loud either. It’s steely and final, and it shuts her up. She tries to search his face, hoping that he will take this back – surely he won’t send her off to Kings Landing, a place she’d never desired to see or step foot in. But she knows he won’t, as his face is grave and nonnegotiable, he will do whatever is best for his people, even if it is ruining his daughter’s life. She wipes at her eyes, erasing her distress. “Be careful what you say. It’s more important now than it ever was, do you understand?”

The breath she takes is heavy, and her heart is beginning to feel empty. She looks up at her mother with a face devoid of any emotion. “So, I’ll be marrying a bastard… How is that a truce?”

Catelyn is still grim- faced, and Arya suspects that is the only reason her mother is angry. The prince may have the blood of two great houses, but the fact that he had been conceived outside of wedlock still hung heavily over everyone’s heads. For years, Catelyn Stark had tried to steer her away from the influence of the boys and had tried to force sewing needles into her hand. She’d try to sit her down and tell her all about the husband she’d one day marry, and the children she’d be forced to have. Arya had always been different to the girls around her, preferring to spar with the boys than praying with Sansa. Her needlework was truly awful, and she sounded like a dying bird when trying to sing. Her manners were those of a pig, and she always talks with her mouth full. Her mother hadn’t been prepared for a daughter so repellent, and it showed in the way she preferred Sansa’s presence over hers.

“Jon was legitimized.” Lord Stark reminds her, like it was her who had a problem with it. In truth, she didn’t much care. Bastards, lords, commoners, princes; she’d preferred to never marry, no matter status. She wasn’t a lady – and she’d never be a lady. She would never survive somewhere like King’s Landing, where everything was false and covered in silks. She was of the North, purely and unquestionably, and they would eat her from the inside out. 

Marrying a lord, maybe she could have grown to accept it, having had it pushed on her since she was a child (no matter how much she argued against it). But a prince… it was probably the worst fate she could have ever of been granted.


	2. the journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The commoners seemed happy, mothers playing with their children and fathers working shirtless in the heat. She watched as a young woman sang for a group, her deeper than normal voice gliding beautifully through the throngs of people. The Mad King’s son sat on the throne, why were his subjects so obliviously unconcerned?

The trip is long and tiring, and with each mile, her grief deepens. The only thing she is thankful for is that most of her family has come along, though Rickon had remained. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and Bran had insisted on coming despite their father’s suggestions that he stay to have some experience on being a lord. Bran had looked at him, confusing everybody by saying _I won’t be a lord of anything_. They’d talked to him for a few hours afterward, and Bran had come out looking like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, while their mother and father looked bone tired. The past years had changed her brother, and it had begun to wear on both their parents. When he’d been a child, he’d been quite different. Climbing the stone walls and waking early to ride with Robb, always managing to find the joy in things and always smiling, but as of late he’d been getting more and more reserved, sitting in the Godswood, and staring off into the distance.

They’d forced her inside a wheelhouse with her mother, Myrcella, and Bran. She’d tried to beg her father, holding his hands, and saying, “They probably won’t let me ride anymore, I won’t get the dress dirty, I promise…” He’d looked on the verge of relenting, but mother had grabbed her elbow and pulled her along. Myrcella and her sat across from Arya, talking as if _they_ were mother and daughter. It was sickening to watch. As soon as Sansa had left for Highgarden, the small blond girl had come along. Another replacement for what Arya wasn’t. She tried her best to ignore it, and tried to start a conversation with Bran, who sat next to her. It was a sad attempt. His head remained turned towards the only window, eyes far away, replies short and discouraging.

Turning forward again, she caught eyes with the pretty Myrcella Baratheon (she would never, never be a Stark in Arya's eyes), who was staring. Not really at her, but at her _hair_. Arya glared until the girl pinked brilliantly, attention darting to the ground.

The morning of their departure, she’d stolen a dull knife from the kitchens and cut all her hair off. It’d never been long to begin with, but it’d reached a little passed her collarbones. It now curled along the nape of her neck and ears, and it hung over her forehead. The cut was choppy and uneven, clearly done by an unskilled hand. Her father had shaken his head, but he’d curled a short strand around his finger and patted her head. Her mother hadn’t looked at her again.

She wondered what the king would think of her. Hopefully he’d think her so ugly and disgusting that he sent her back to Winterfell, where the cold was comforting. She barely thought of the prince, but as she’d hacked at her hair until she looked like a boy, she could only feel bitter pleasure as she imagined his disappointed face. Politics didn’t much interest her, so she’d rarely listened to stories of King’s Landing. All she’d ever heard of Jon Targaryen was that he was as solemn as he was a great swordsman. Most of the whispers concerning him consisted of bastardbastardbastard.

It was as she was lost in her thoughts that she felt a hand grab hers, and she looked up to see Bran smiling gently.

“Don’t worry, sister.” He whispered. Myrcella giggled at something her mother was smiling about, and Bran continued to look at her with soft, blank eyes. Arya shook her head and pulled her fingers from his grip.

What did he know about anything?

*

King’s Landing smelt like rotten food and horse shit. As they’d ridden further into the city, she’d gotten more and more incredulous. She was half in Bran’s lap, half holding onto the carriage wall so as not to disturb him _too much_ and peering out of the window with wide eyes. Unrealistically, she’d imagined it to be thick with the fumes of perfume and fruit. It was only now that she realized how stupid she’d been to assume something so ridiculous. She’d never been to a place so packed with people, and the streets were thick with children playing in their smallclothes, dumping buckets of water over each other. She’d pictured the people uncomfortably cold and sharp eyed, hiding in the corners, and the air thick with fear. But she’d been wrong to assume that too. The commoners seemed happy, mothers playing with their children and fathers working shirtless in the heat. She watched as a young woman sang for a group, her deeper than normal voice gliding beautifully through the throngs of people. There were a lot of smiles, and not as much poverty as she’d imagined. It shook her to the core, making her feel scared and little. The Mad King’s son sat on the throne, why were his subjects so obliviously unconcerned?

She’d grown up with stories of Rhaegar Targaryen stealing her aunt (but that wasn’t right, was it? Her father had admitted, as reluctant as he was, that the man had loved his sister) while his wife and children cowered in the Red Keep. By the time he’d won against Robert on the Trident, shoving his sword through her father’s old friend’s chest, Jamie Lannister had already killed the Mad King. Rhaegar had come back for his children and his wife, saving them from the diabolical plan of the Kingslayer’s father, Tywin, but it’d all happened because of him. If only he’d left Lyanna Stark alone, her family wouldn’t have been put through the grief that they had suffered, including countless others affected by the war. Her poor uncle and grandfather, murdered at the hands of his father, all for coming to rescue Lyanna, and it’d been his fault for taking her away. Her poor, poor aunt who’d been hidden in Dorne, all alone and dying shortly after her child’s birth, because of him. And now this. Forcing her to marry the reason that might as well have started Robert’s Rebellion. Why was Rhaegar so insistent on tearing apart their family?

Many eyes followed their wheelhouse and the assemble of riders and Stark banners as they made their way to the castle, burning with curiosity. News spread fast, and Westeros knew of the betrothal of The Stark girl and The Targaryen Bastard.

A few days before they’d left, her Septa had sat her down. She’d been as brusque as usual, but her words had been softer. She’d told Arya that after the wedding, she would have to consummate it. She asked if Arya knew what that meant. She did. Next, she asked if she knew how it worked. There’d been moments where she’d come across Theon telling one of his stories, so she did. Her septa had nodded, and then told her that she wouldn’t like it. That he would probably hurt her, and that she must do anything he wants. Arya had heard stories, of course. Women were used and discarded for nothing but heirs. Another thing she despised about being a lady.

She’d nodded, and had remained silent, edging to leave. She would never admit, not to her mother, not to her father, not to Bran, that she was absolutely terrified for that moment. She could deal with the pain of falling, with the hard hit of a wooden sword against her arm, with scraping her knees, but the thought of being violated like that sent shivers down her spine. She was short and skinny, and any man practically towered over her. Being overpowered and with nowhere to go, it made her ears ring.

"Sit down." Her mother chastised, sending her a stern look. Arya gave her equally sharp eyes, and did so slowly, pleasure blooming in her belly when Catelyn's lips thinned. Her mother bent forward and pushed the hair out of her eyes and behind her ears. It was no use, the strands slipped right back to where they'd been. "Have you no shame?"

"No." Arya sneered back, turning her head away. She brought her hands up and mussed up her hair even more.

" _Arya_." Her mother snapped.

"What? You've got what you wanted, now leave me be." Arya gritted her teeth and fought back tears. After the wedding, her mother would leave. She'd regret this, she knew it, but she couldn't _not_ be difficult. And… and her mother wanted her gone, away, and then she’d have Robb’s perfect little wife, with no Arya to hinder her worries anymore. She was stupid for feeling hurt over it, but she was always stupid when it came to her family.

Myrcella gasped and Bran sighed. It remained silent after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the response last chapter, it encouraged me to edit this and put it up sooner than I'd planned. I'd forgotten to mention that these chapters will be more like... detailed snippets, if you know what I mean. It's not going to be lengthy or anything, and in between chapters there might be time skips, but I'll make sure to clarify that from now on. (I'm probably forgetting to mention something as I type this, but I'll just tell you next chapter lol). Thank you again, and please let me know what you think.


	3. the prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not afraid, and this time she almost believes herself.

When they arrive, it is to a crowd of guards. Arya settles back in her seat and runs a hand over her brow, trying not to shut her eyes against the sick feeling pooling in her stomach. This was real. She was in King’s Landing, and she would be marrying a prince (unbidden, she wonders what Sansa is thinking; her sister had always held more love for princes than she ever had). It almost felt as if she were waking from a dream state, somewhere she hadn’t known she’d been until now. Her eyes felt sharper, her breaths more acute. Her head tilts dazedly when Bran nudges her to go ahead of him, and Arya takes a deep, rasping breath before grabbing her mother’s offered hand.

With one shoe planted firmly on the ground, her right foot catches on the edge of the wheelhouse. Arya stumbles a little, almost falling flat on her face, but she rights herself quickly with a hand on her father's arm. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Robb turning away with a poorly concealed grin. She ignores this and walks in between her mother and father, arms held stiff, wanting nothing more than to grab their hands and plead with them right then and there. How could they do this? They knew she wasn’t made for this life. They knew… and they didn’t care. She feels the many eyes on her, but she remains focused on nothing. Arya stares straight ahead, not bothering to examine the fine architecture, and uncaring of the snakes within. Maybe if she ignores everything, all of this will cease to exist.

They are led to the throne room, and she’s frowning so deeply that she’s sure her lips will never smile again. She’s expecting Rhaegar Targaryen to be sitting arrogantly on his gaudy iron throne, but to her surprise, he’s standing slightly in front of his three children. The queen is absent, and she can only think it’s because the family of her husband’s mistress has arrived. She’d heard that Elia Martell was sharp faced but kind, though some assumed her to be cruel because of her natural quietness and regal features. Despite the whispered insults about how she was a snake of a woman, undeserving of the crown that hadn’t belonged to anyone, there was no proof of such accusations. Arya herself wasn’t sure on what to think, so she chose not to dwell on it at all. After all, before a moon ago, she’d never expected to be in such close quarters with the woman.

She refuses to look at those next to him, but in her peripheral she can see two heads full of dark hair, with a shock of light hair closest to the king. His face is not as cold as she’d been preparing for, and his smile is slight as they approach. Though even as his lips curl, there is a certain sadness that seems to be permanently etched upon his face. Despite this, he is still terribly handsome, with long white-blond hair that brushes his shoulders and dark eyes. From a distance, she can’t tell the color, but she’d once heard Marcella giggling about how all the Targaryen’s had purple eyes.

“Lord Stark.” He says, approaching. His steps are so light, she can barely hear the dull thud of his boots hitting the floor. Her father kneels accordingly, saying a strong, “Your Grace.” When he reaches them, standing a foot away, the king curls his fingers towards his palm, eyelevel with Eddard’s bowed head. Once he stands, her father and the king look at each other for a long, tense moment.

Arya wonders if he is seeing the woman who is said to resemble her brother, whom he had made a bastard son with despite being married. She wonders if her father is seeing the reason his sister and father and brother had died.

“I’m glad you agreed to come, my lord.” Rhaegar said. Arya makes sure to lower her head before she rolls her eyes. As if a king cared about other people’s wishes except for his own. He moves alongside the line they had made, presenting the Stark family. Her mother displays the finest of curtsy’s, no less than what is expected, and King Rhaegar presses his lips to her hand. Marcella receives the same treatment after Robb inclines his head deeply, and he tells the girl how beautiful she's become since the last time he'd seen her.

When he gets to Arya, she gives the most halfhearted of them all, and even though she see’s nothing but the throne as she does it, she can tell that her mother probably looks like she’s swallowed a lemon.

“A new haircut?” He asks lightly, attracting her eyes back to his. She frowns at his warm face, noticing that they are indeed purple. They’re strange and foreign to her, and entirely unwelcome.

“Yes.” She said, eyebrows narrowing. She stares hard into his weird purple eyes, right on the edge of being disrespectful. “The day we left.”

Myrcella nudges her discreetly, and she wants to lay the girl flat on her back and kick her in her too pretty face. Instead, she tries to soften the downturn of her mouth, and she says, “Your Grace.”

He is staring at her too intently, searching her face for something. She pinks under the scrutiny, and half expects him to grab her hand like he had done with her mother and Myrcella, half expecting she’ll cringe if he does, but then he is moving onto Bran without further comment.

She lets out a shallow breath and glances at her parents. She’d been right, Catelyn is tightlipped and narrow eyed. So, Arya skirts passed her, to her father. He isn’t even looking at her, but at something – or _someone_ , she finds out as she turns forward.

She realizes that all three of the king’s children are staring straight at her. She is immediately frozen on the spot, surely betraying her sudden fear. She hadn’t examined any one of their faces, terrified of looking at the future king and queen – and her betrothed. She looks to the two trueborn children first, further delaying seeing her soon to be husband (in fear? _I'm not afraid_ , she tells herself, but it's a flimsy, obvious lie), and they are just as beautiful as the kingdom whispers. Aegon Targaryen looks just like his father, hair so brilliant it looks like the moon. Though his sister is terribly thin, and lacking the curves of a woman, she is probably the most beautiful girl Arya’s ever seen, with features almost doll like, but somehow fierce. She already looks like a queen, dressed in a pale dress that shines like a pearl. But despite them being lovely to look at, a couple those wrote songs of, they weren’t the reason she was here.

 _I'm not afraid,_ and this time she almost believes herself.

It was her first real glimpse of his face, and even though she’d seen the dark hair and pale skin, she’s not prepared for how much he looks like a Stark. He resembles her father uncannily, and he kind of looks like her too. He’s as serious as they say. His face reveals nothing, dark eyes guarded, lips relaxed. He doesn’t look happy, but he also doesn’t appear to be absolutely disgusted. His clothes are mostly black, though they are trimmed in red. It’s strange to see someone who is so clearly a Stark wear the Targaryen house colors.

They hold eye contact for only a few short moments before he gives a slight nod, causing her to quickly look away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not quite sure when I'll get to editing the next chapter (I already have it written, but I want to change a lot of it; make it more detailed) and my classes start Monday so I won't have much time, I expect. Please let me know what you think :)


	4. the wedding p.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She looks like a Northern princess, from the old tales Old Nan used to try to tell her. Or it’s what she imagines a Northern princess used to look like, with the long elegant fur cloak and stoic face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally botched this :) I'm not even totally sure if those words/vows are those of the seven, I'm... 50% sure. But this was really pissing me off and I needed it out of my way, so... just go along with it, yes??

The wedding happens too soon after that. 

Two days pass, and Arya is sat, two handmaidens pulling up her dress and lacing the back. It’s uncomfortably stiff and tight at her waist. It is pretty, but she can’t help but think it just isn’t her. Fancy gowns and delicate sandals felt foreign on her body, and they looked even more strange. She’d never worn such expensive material in her life, and it showed in her awkward manner of moving. One handmaiden, Ariella, had pinned her bangs away from her forehead and lightly dusted a powder over her face. Then she’d told Arya to keep her eyes open, and she’d had to sit through the girl painstakingly rubbing something on her eyelashes. It was a process she never wanted to repeat, and she’d had to tip her head back to blink the sting away from her eyes, at Ariella’s vehement insistence “You’ll have black trails down your face, my lady! You must!”

Afterwards, once they were finished, she looked in the mirror and grimaced. She was a girl in a lovely dress, and shining sandals, and maybe her eyes looked a little bigger, but it felt all wrong. That’s not you, she reassured herself, glaring into her own eyes. She did not look as happy as Sansa had at her wedding, where her sister had glowed like the flowers the Tyrells so loved. Her face was drawn and pale, and painfully sad.

She blinked when Obi, the handmaiden who hadn’t uttered a word, places a thick cloak over her shoulders. It’s heavy and comforting, and even more extravagant than the outfit she must wear below it. It is mostly white, but the trim done in a very pale green. The collar is thick with pale fur, and when she turns around, she’s struck by the sheer beauty of it. She looks like a Northern princess, from the old tales Old Nan used to try to tell her. Or it’s what she imagines a Northern princess used to look like, with the long elegant fur cloak and stoic face.

She takes a long look, because later Jon Targaryen shall remove it from her back and replace it with his own.

*

She keeps a tight grip on her father’s arm as they walk down the aisle. The prince is on the other side of the room, and he’s watching their approach, but Arya delays looking at him to survey her family. Distantly, she wonders who else has shown up, what families have decided to travel for the second prince, and if the King’s siblings have come. But all of it seems rather unimportant, and so her eyes flicker left and right, searching for her brothers and mother. They stand on the side she is walking down, and she can only really catch a glimpse when they get to the front. Her mother has soft eyes and Robb is giving her a kind smile. She doesn’t get to look at Bran before they come to a stop, and she must look at the groom.

He is very handsome, intimidatingly so. Boys had never sought her attention, and vice versa, so it burnt to have a man as pretty as him stand before her, about to become her husband. She wonders if he is pitying himself, having been stuck with a bride so unworthy. He could’ve married a dutiful southern girl, with shining blond hair and delicate features, but he was stuck with her. It made her feel mortified, so she avoided his eyes and focused on the center of his forehead.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” The septon announced. Her father slipped her beautiful cloak from her shoulders, leaving her cold and bare and self-conscious, and as he stepped away, she stiffened her arms to keep them from crossing in front of her chest. It was hard to remain still as Jon curved around her, placing his family’s colors over her back, marking her end as a Stark, and displaying that she was now under his protection.

Her eyes closed, and when they opened, he was standing in front of her again. Jon’s eyes were gentle as he looked at her, nicer than she had been expecting from him. Up close, she could see that they were grey, and not brown like she’d assumed.

“My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” The septon said. Jon held out his hand, and Arya placed hers on top of his palm. She blinked at the size difference, her fingertips barely reached where his knuckles began. The septon spoke as he tied a knot around their joined hands, but the only words to make it to her ears were one heart, one flesh, one soul. After he finished, he unraveled the ribbon, and said, “Look upon each other and say the words.”

Her gaze caught onto his again, and simultaneously they recited, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger...”

She hoped her mother was pleased that her voice hadn’t shook, and she hoped her father thought she was brave. She stood strong in front of all the eyes she could feel on her, and her voice matched the strength of the princes. She wasn’t meek and quiet, like Myrcella, and she wasn’t sweet-toned and gentle like Sansa. She’d show everyone that they’d made a mistake in choosing her, that she wasn’t someone to be controlled.

“I am yours and you are mine, from this day until the end of my days.” They said, and though her eyebrows narrowed, she remained steady and even.

And then he was ducking his head down, slowly, and she could only watch with wide eyes as he got closer and closer. She wanted to duck out of his way, maybe punch him in the mouth, but she kept still as he placed a hand on the back of her head and planted his lips firmly on hers. It wasn’t feather light, like Loras had done with Sansa, like she had been expecting herself. His facial hair scraped against her cheek and upper lip, and his mouth was very soft against hers. She was glad he didn’t try to open his lips or anything, but it wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as she’d been dreading. It made her belly feel tingly, and as he pulled away, she felt her face redden.

Curiously, his face was red too, but then they were turning to face the gathering and applause broke out. She only had eyes for her father, who stood closely, lovingly, next to her mother. She hoped it was clear on her face that she’d never forgive him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part shall be up on the 11th, or earlier.


	5. the wedding p.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, as she trails after her arranged husband, and stops at the entryway of their chambers, she wants to take it all back and use her wishes for this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the longest chapter yet. hmm I'm quite busy with classes, so I'm not sure when my next update will be. All of these chapters (I say all like this is actually a lot, lol.) were already prewritten, but I tweaked at em a bit, so I'll probably wait until I have a few more written so I don't feel completely overwhelmed like i do now. hah, please let me know what you think. And thank you for all of the response, I appreciate it a lot.

All throughout the ceremony, and the feast, she wished time would just speed up and for them to be over. Now, as she trails after her arranged husband, and stops at the entryway of their chambers, she wants to take it all back and use her wishes for this moment. The ceremony had been over in a heartbeat, she felt now, and their time at the feast seemed a blur. She’d barely eaten and had drunk enough wine to make her bones settle blearily. But even now, staring at his back as he makes his way into the room, it feels like an eternity.

_It’ll be painful and unpleasant, and you won’t like it at all. Try not to upset him._

He looks back at her questioningly, so she comes forward with heavy steps. Her earlier bravado has completely disappeared, but she tries to keep her face as still as possible. _Try not to upset him._

“Did you enjoy the feast?” He asked, taking a step closer when she stops. He is barely a foot away.

 _No._ “Yes. The pie was good.” It’d tasted dull in her mouth, and she’d had a vivid imagery of spitting it in Rhaegar Targaryen’s face.

He raised his eyebrows, and she’s _almost_ sure that he knew she was lying. To her relief, he didn’t seem too bothered. “How about the wine?”

“It was good,” She answered truthfully. It’d been deep red and bitter, probably the strangest, most luxurious wine she’d ever tasted.

He took another step. “The Queens brother brought some from Dorne, I liked it while I was there. What do you think of the Red Keep?”

 _It’s too beautiful. It makes me feel sick to my stomach. I want to smash all these walls. I want to go home._ “It’s different.” She says.

“How so?” The tips of his boots are now one inch from her own feet, and he’s looking down at her like he wants to know. But she doesn’t want to talk about her home, not with this southerner who would never understand the North. And comparing the Red Keep with Winterfell is almost as distasteful as what is about to happen. She has nothing nice to say about his home. But he is the prince, and he is her husband _, try not to upset him_.

“It’s warmer, and there are more people.” She tells him. “You have silks and your… style is different.”

After he nods, and begins to slowly undress, time _does_ go quite fast. It could be her blocking out everything as it’s happening, or it could be the fact that Jon wasn’t being nearly as deprived as the women back home always said men were. His hands didn’t linger too long, and he didn’t try to kiss her again. Before he slips inside her, he uses his fingers, and she’s entirely blindsided by the pleasantness of such a thing. It doesn’t stop her face from reddening, but thankfully she manages to cut off most of her vocal response. After her hips begin to start squirming without her consent, he pulls away and starts to get on top of her. He says he’ll try not to hurt her, and she soon finds out that he stays mostly true to his word. It hurts a little at first, but the pain soon fades into something just as toe-curling.

After it’s over, Arya pulls the blanket up to her chin and curls in on herself. She'd turned her back, and was now sorely regretting the move. She wanted to keep a wary eye on her new husband, but it’d be awkward if she rolled over again. What if he was facing her back? She couldn’t risk it. For some reason, there’s a tenseness in the room, but maybe it’s only coming from her. From what she’s seen of him (which hasn’t been much, admittedly, before he’d began to unclasp his doublet, that’d been their first conversation) he seems to be an unemotional, distant man. Thankfully, as of right now, he didn’t appear cruel. Her breathing relaxes a little at this, oddly. Better to be married to someone who was focused on other matters, then to someone who would smother their wife with unwanted attention and orders.

She’d observed him out of the corner of her eye since their arrival, making absolute sure he never caught her in the act. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea; she wasn’t interested and probably never would be. He may have had a pretty face, but in her experience, the prettiest faces disguised the rottenest interior. After all, she had met Cersi Lannister, and no matter Myrcella’s assurances that she was nice, Arya had seen the calculated way the woman had eyed her older brother, and their lands, before nudging her daughter to meet her betrothed.

 Jon Targaryen was quiet, she noticed. She saw him exchange a few words with the king, and that she had watched closer than any of his other interactions. Rhaegar hadn’t seemed annoyed by the presence of his bastard son, and he hadn’t appeared cold either. It was surprising to see him appear _fatherly_ , like when she’d seen him place a hand on Aegon’s shoulder, or when he kissed the side of Rhaenys’s hair. He smiled at Jon, and though his eyes were dark and purple and intimidating, they were soft as he looked at his children. She’d never seen someone treat a bastard with an ounce of respect and had expected it even less here. Of course, he was legitimized, so technically he _was_ a Targaryen… but he was still a bastard. No one would ever forget it, especially since he’d favored his mother’s looks. Jon seemed to prefer Aegon’s company over his sister’s, and she’d seen him speaking to a few of the guards. Otherwise, he seemed bored and silent, and then absent while he wasn’t brooding next to his shining family.

Bran had told her of the breakfast they’d been required to attend, the day after they’d arrived. It was tradition, for the men on the woman’s side of the family to dine with the king and his family. Arya had been grateful she wouldn’t need to be a part of it, but she was nervous all the same. How could it possibly go, other than completely disastrous? She was proud to say the men of her family were sturdily North (Except, maybe, Bran, who was gentle and quiet), in every aspect, from the scruff on their faces to the rough way in which they spoke. But this was King’s Landing, and _they_ were the weird ones. She’d seen the looks sent her father’s way, the sharp eyes latched onto her older brother, and she’d certainly noticed the way attention had followed her. How could they hold an amicable conversation with slippery folk clothed in silk and jewels?

She met Bran in the gardens, where he felt most comfortable, and found him with his back turned towards her. He was unusually still, and she grinned. She moved forward and dropped her hands to his shoulders in one swift sudden move. However, he didn’t jump, like she'd been hoping for, and he didn’t much react at all. She walked around him with her hands on her hips, eyebrows scrunched. He was blinking rapidly, looking at the grass, the sky, the few other people strolling. His knuckles were white from where he gripped the grass. He squinted his eyes as he trailed them over her face.

“Are you alright?” She asked, hushed. She’d never seen him so twitchy, so bewildered.

He nodded dazedly. “Sorry. I fell asleep.”

“Right.” She hummed, raising an eyebrow. For a few moments he continued to observe his surroundings, but then he gathered himself. He sat a bit straighter and patted the grass next to him, and Arya plopped down, shoulder brushing his.

“It went well.” He told her right away, calm and light toned. As she listened, she felt a pang in her heart. She’d miss him the most, with his gentle gaze and soft voice. Ever since Robb had grown out of allowing her to follow him around, she’d had to resort to her younger brothers. Rickon was the one she played with, but Bran was the one she talked to. “The king and his family are nice. The princess didn’t speak to us much, but she told me she liked my cloak.”

He looked down at himself and shrugged. It was black and sleek, more suited for the warmness of King’s Landing than any of his other, thicker ones. Grey fur lined the collar and trim. It really was beautiful. “Prince Aegon was really interested in the North. He interrogated Robb for half the meal.”

“Really?” She asked, startled. Who would have expected the fair, beautiful prince to lower himself to ask about the North? She thought all the southerners considered them to be barbaric, _especially_ the royal family.

“Yes.” Bran nodded. “He plans to visit sometime, said he needed to get a better grasp on it.”

Confused, and a little furious, she pushed on. “Well? What of father and the king? What of the _other_ prince?”

“As you would expect, Rhaegar and father were very tense. And the queen was there, so at moments it could get a little awkward.” Bran grimaced, before he glanced at her and held her gaze. “And Prince Jon. I don’t think he’s a bad man, Arya.”

She dismissed him with a wave of hand. “What, you’re an expert because you shared a breakfast table? Tell me, did he say one word?”

Bran shot her a dirty look that could barely be considered that. His features were too soft to make it work properly. “Of course… Well, not much, but he talked to all three of us at least once.”

“And!?” Arya demanded.

“And he was respectful and kind. He asked father about Winterfell, and Robb about Myrcella. He asked me what I liked to do.”

“And you said...?” She wanted to know everything that had happened. She hadn't spoken to any one of the Targaryen's, and had barely been in their presence, she need to know what they were like. She was stuck here now, after all.

“I told him I liked to sit in the Godswood.”

“You told him you like to sit in the Godswood?” She asked, incredulous. “Bran…”

“What? It’s what I like to do.” This time his look was sharp, and she blinked at his downturned mouth and narrowed eyebrows. “He didn’t find it odd. He asked if you liked the Godswood as well.”

“He asked about me?” Arya squeaked. After a moment, she cleared her throat, embarrassed.

“He said that there’s one here, in King’s Landing. If you ever wanted to go. It isn’t a heart tree though…” Bran trailed off.

“Unlikely,” She scoffed. At his confused expression, she went on impatiently, “How often did I visit the Godswood back home? Besides when I came to sit with you. And anyways, they haven’t got a heart tree. It’s not the same, is it?”

He shrugged, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Well, if you ever needed to get away. You could say you’re visiting the Godswood. I imagine it’ll be rough here, at first.”

Sometimes Bran got like this, more so lately than any time in the past. Eyes shuttered, and a voice like he was sharing a secret. It made her feel jittery and unsettled, but she ignored it in favor of shrugging.

“We’ll see.”

Arya curls farther into herself, thinking of Bran. On the morrow she’ll have to say goodbye to her family, and it’ll probably be the last time she sees them in a long while. What will she do without them? Stuck in a castle full of strangers, of dragons. Maybe once her family leaves, the king will reveal his true face. Maybe he’ll treat her like the hostage she feels like, and maybe the prince will be crueler once her father and brother leave his castle walls. Maybe Rhaegar Targaryen was more like the mad king than anyone realized, maybe he’d burn her alive like her grandfather and uncle had.

She wants to go to sleep, wants to drink more wine to make it an easier drift, but instead she lies there with wide eyes, seeking the dimness of her chambers –

“Did I hurt you?” The man beside her asks. She stiffens and remains silent for a long moment. She’d thought he’d went to sleep, that she was finally alone with her thoughts, body, and soul.

“No.” Arya says, staring at the few lit candles closest to her. Her eyes blur, focusing on the bright wisps of flame. They will burn all night.

“I can leave.” He suggested, not sounding like he cared whether he left or stayed. She blinked, hope beginning to spread through her throat. “I didn’t want to offend you – “

“It’s fine.” She says, almost too quickly, and surely too encouraging. “You can leave.”

She feels the shift of the bed and bites her lip in anticipation. The added weight lifts, and she can hear him moving about, gathering his clothing. Her eyes stay glued onto the candles.

He doesn’t speak when he leaves, and she breathes a giant exhale when the door shuts quietly behind him. Finally, alone, finally safe (or as safe as it could be) and finally free. No more eyes to watch, no more mouths to question… Arya startles herself by letting out a panicky, gasping sob. It’s all dry, and it feels more like heaving, but she can feel the warmness on her face. Her chest jerks with every rough cry, and her face is crumpled with the weight of what is yet to come.

She wanted to go _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, two things. First, I'm sorry if that conversation with Bran felt so stilted and shit, but tenses always frustrate me, and I wasn't totally sure on how to incorporate it smoothly and I couldn't just delete it (it was a bit important, so i needed to keep it.). And, two, I wrote this a few months ago and I'm just now realizing that Bran may not be able to see the future. So..... now he does, if he didn't before.


	6. the other prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sure.” She gave him narrowed eyes, and he threw his head back and laughed,” Lighten up, little wolf. Don’t want to go grey before your time, do you? Smell the flowers, dance with the wind, smile a little. Much worse things have happened.”

They leave early the next morning.

It’s a somber affair and the feelings are mixed. Arya is stuck between wanting them to never leave – needing something familiar in this new world of strangers – and wanting them to be gone as soon as possible. It’s hard to look at them, especially her father, who she loves more than anything in the world. She can’t stand to see his steady eyes and steady posture, she can’t stand to see the drawn lines surrounding his mouth and the warmth etched upon his face. If she looks too long, she begins to feel sick and dizzy, and altogether unsteady in the way he is not.

So, she is stiff and uncomfortable as she stands in front of her family. The Royal family has already said their goodbyes, leaving her to have a quiet moment. She’d watched blankly as Jon Targaryen clasped hands with her father and kissed her mother’s fingers, curiously empty inside as well. A few days prior, she’d imagined herself crying into their arms and begging them to take her back home, but then, then… then she hadn’t realized how _real_ all of this was. For some reason, it hadn’t actually occurred to her that she was going to be stuck with some other family for the rest of her life and that her own kin were willingly giving her away. But now it was very real, and she was married, and there her family stood, with her on the other side.

Her body had emptied her of tears the night before, and she’s very thankful for that small mercy. She wouldn’t make a fool out of herself, not here, not with them. She’d already done that enough. And so here she was, unable to speak, unable to feel, and unable to breathe.

“I hope… I hope that you will come to like it here.” Myrcella is the first to speak, hesitant, smile shaky and uncertain. “It’s quite beautiful, and Prince Jon is a good, kind man.”

Arya stares at her for a long moment, before she is swept up into Robb’s arms.

“Winterfell won’t be the same.” He said, holding her tight against his chest. He feels warm and welcoming, but she can’t help but feel uncomfortable in his grasp. “I’ll miss you.”

She attempts to pat his shoulder, extracting herself gently, “I’ll miss you too.”

Next her father hugs her, squeezing her firmly in both arms. She’s lifted off the ground a little, and she has to grab onto him to keep herself upright. He smells like a mixture of horses and something entirely unique to him; father and home and safeness. She only lets herself breathe it in for a few moments, before pulling away from him as well.

“You’ll fit right in, Arya.” He tells her. “Just give it time. Don’t judge the people from the rumors you’ve heard, form your opinions based on _your_ experience, hmm?”

It was a little too late for that, but she nodded anyways.

Her mother goes on about how proud she is, how Arya had been so beautiful the night before, and how she’ll miss her _so very much_. She doubts it, but let’s her mother go on. As much as she wants to be away, she’ll not start a fight before they leave, more for her benefit than for anyone else’s. She didn’t want to be guilty of hurting her mother’s and father’s feelings on the day of their leave, even though they deserved it.

Bran is even more reserved than Arya, managing a stiff goodbye and an upturned grin, but that is all. She tries not to feel too disappointed and watches as they all leave, her brother and father on horses, and everyone else inside the wheelhouse. A considerable weight lifts off her chest as she watches them disappear, only to be replaced with an acute sense of loneliness.

*

She sits in the Gardens, temple sweaty and skin slightly too warm. After watching her family leave, she’d come here, and had sat for nearly two hours. No one had bothered her, thankfully. It was actually quite peaceful and refreshing, and she wondered with horror if she was turning into Sansa. Her sister probably did that a lot, with the Tyrell’s and their fancy flowers and whatnot, she probably gushed over them like an over-excited little girl. Arya frowned, and chewed the inside of her lip. They hadn’t received much letters from her sister over the last year. She’d announced her pregnancy in the last, but she must’ve been close to birthing now that eight moons had passed.

Sansa would do great with a child. She was perfect and nurturing and practically an exact replica of their own mother, so she would be fine. Her, on the other hand, she’d be a terrible mother. She couldn’t even fathom the thought for long, stuck on the fact that despite everyone else’s opinions on the matter, she was still little more than a child herself. She didn’t even _want_ a baby.

And thinking about babies made her think of _how_ babies were made. She didn’t want to do that again. Sure, some of it had felt… pleasant, but it wasn’t something she wanted to do every night. No, definitely not. It’d been awkward and uncomfortable, and though it hadn’t hurt as much as her septa said it would, it’d still been far from her favorite thing to do.

“You seem to be melting, little girl.” A voice said. She glanced up sharply, automatically straightening in her seat and giving the stranger a reproachful look. He was a sharp faced man with piercing eyes and a curled lip, and he looked exactly like she’d imagined the people of King’s Landing. He pressed a finger to her forehead, not minding when she jerked back. He held his index up and she saw it was slick with perspiration. “Not suited for the warmth?”

“Just not used to it.” She said stiffly, eyeing him. “Who are you?”

He gave her a raised eyebrow, almost looking offended. “Oberyn Martell. The Queen’s brother. I was there last night.”

“Oh.” Now she looked him over with renewed interest, this was the able brother. Even in the North, she’d heard of his skill. He _did_ look like a fighter, all lithe and quick, like the snake he was nicknamed after. She couldn’t seem to recall the name, the Black Cobra maybe? “You brought the wine.”

“I did.” He gave her a pleased grin, smug. “You enjoyed it, yes? Nearly drunk three goblets.”

“It was alright.” She said defensively. From the looks of it, this man did not need any compliments. “I’ve had better.”

“Sure.” She gave him narrowed eyes, and he threw his head back and laughed,” Lighten up, little wolf. Don’t want to go grey before your time, do you? Smell the flowers, dance with the wind, smile a little. Much worse things have happened.”

“I’ll be sure to be remember that.” She told him, flatly.

“I like you!” He laughed again, louder and freer and happy. “Got a little poison, yes? You remind me of my daughter’s, they’ve got a taste for sarcasm as well. Jon lucked out with you.”

“Oh, did he?” She stared at him, a little amused, a little guarded, _what a strange man_.

Oberyn nodded, smile wider and not as sharp. He was sort of handsome. “Yes, he did. I’ll be seeing you later, I’ve got important business with the king.”

He sniffed and bowed his head, strolling through the Gardens with an air of contentedness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think.


	7. the godswood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She explores the surrounding area like she is a wolf setting out for its prey, stalking the gate like a caged animal, hiding behind trees like she is playing an assassin, waiting for her baby brother to come running over, the hero with a wooden sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am I really updating this???? Holy fuck I guess I am..

Two moons passed and things were… not at all how she expected it to be. She’d imagined them cruel and domineering, and her scared in return. But they weren’t and so she was lost and tip-toeing as she waited for something to happen, unsure on how to feel as the fear had denigrated every day that had passed.

Maybe anxious? And bored. Always bored. Everyone seemed to run busy everyday lives. The Queen was either ill or sorting out arrangements and letters, Prince Aegon mostly beside his father as he followed him around; whether it to meet with lords or attend small counsels, and late nights up in Rhaegar’s solar. Arya supposes the king is probably teaching the prince what he should inherit one day. The princess was usually occupied by the ladies of the court, or if her mother was up and meeting the demands of the people, she’d be sitting by her side. Arya didn’t know what Prince Jon was doing, most of the time. He was absent a good portion of the day, absorbed in responsibilities she knew nothing about, but he was often back after supper. He always made a point of saying goodnight and she would as well, just to keep things civil between them.

The fear of what he could do kept her somewhat timid, but seeing as how she rarely encountered him, she was allowed to do as she wished. Surprisingly, she was not expected to prance round in a dress and mingle with the ladies, downing Dorne wine and bathing in the sunlight. No, she was as good as ignored, which was no matter to her, but damn, she was so, so bored.

And that was how she found herself visiting the Godswood, sitting next to the tree so unlike Winterfells. It still made her feel better, and not because it reminded her of her family, but of her home. She could close her eyes and just imagine she was back, and that Bran was sitting next to her, silent as he usually was. It _does_ make her sad, and she _does_ cry twice, but eventually she finds comfort in her situation rather than fear.

They have done nothing. For now she is safe.

She doesn’t only sit by the tree. She explores the surrounding area like she is a wolf setting out for its prey, stalking the gate like a caged animal, hiding behind trees like she is playing an assassin, waiting for her baby brother to come running over, the hero with a wooden sword. But he never comes, and she is stuck playing this game by herself, but it is just as fun, if not better. She is totally alone, walking over the grass with practiced silence, feeling fresher than she has in a while.

And then days turn into weeks and everyone has gotten used to her being near absent, isolating herself in the Godswood. One evening after dinner, Jon sidles up alongside her as he walks her to her chambers, and he asks, “How are you faring?”

And she isn’t lying when she says she is doing rather well, but he seems to think so because she doesn’t look at him.

“They say you travel to the Godswood every day, and you sit there for hours.”

“I do.” She says, neck prickling with the stares of the guards following at a distance. “It makes me feel like I’m at home.”

Jon is painfully silent for a moment, and so she questions a look toward him, only to find him looking somewhat sad. Eventually he replies, “I’m glad. Maybe one day we can visit Winterfell, your brother was hell bent on making immediate plans.”

“He likes you.”

“You make it sound as if you’re surprised.”

“I am.” At the look on his face, she backtracks, explaining, “Not that you aren’t a good man, Rob is just very cautious of Southerners. We all are.

“And I am his baby sister. You should have seen him when he met Loras Tyrell… he didn’t like _him_.”

“Really?” Jon allowed a smile, and Arya found herself staring at it for a long moment, grumpy. It seemed to light up the whole corridor, and it looked much better than his usual serious face. “Loras isn’t horrible.”

“Rob said he’d never respect a man with flowers on his armour.”

“Aye, but Loras is a great swordsman. Your brother is probably jealous.”

Arya whipped around to glare at him, hands on her hips, angry as could be. “Excuse _you_? Take that back.”

Jon raised his eyebrows.

“Rob has nothing to be jealous of. He’s a great swordsman as well, just so you know. The _best_ , actually. Besides our father. You’d better hope I never tell him what you just said.”

“You think he could beat me?”

“Without a doubt.” She challenges. “You southerners fight all pretty. One swing and you’d be on your knees, surrendering.”

Maybe she was taking this a little too far, but by the look on Jon Targaryen’s face, he didn’t seem at all angry. In fact, he was almost grinning down at her, but it looked as if he was holding it back just for her sake. This obviously made her livid and she glared at him through slits, heart disappointingly not really feeling the anger she was displaying.

“Goodnight.” She said, clipped. With that, she turned on her heel and marched to her chambers, which they had almost reached. As the door closed behind her, she heard Jon snickering to himself as he turned away.

But one morning everything changes, and endless possibilities arise when she finds a small hole in the gate surrounding the Godswood. So bored and restless she is just walking around, trying to catch a glimpse of the city out and beyond. It’s shallow, unfinished, but she is a small girl and she could hide in the smallest of spaces. It’s not _quite_ big enough, but that’s no matter, she thinks, remembering that they must keep shovels in the stables.

And the more she thinks of it, the more it seems like a good idea. They are used to her being gone, hiding by the makeshift Hearttree, and they usually don’t expect her return until a few hours later.

She wouldn’t be missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason I had the urge to continue this lol! not that it was abandoned, but ive just been very busy and preoccupied with art and work and writing fic about sirius black and james potter, but I am very sorry for this later than late update. hope yall are doing well and hope youre still interested, and welcome to the new readers!!! you are very much appreciated. 
> 
> Tell me what you think, please please pleaseeee :))  
> (ps I made up this whole forest and gate and I feel so so wrong about it but bare with me.)


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